


Simple Tricks of Light

by CaptAcorn



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Character Death, Drama, Family, Humor, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 23:03:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6133201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptAcorn/pseuds/CaptAcorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Tom Paris created a holodeck program with B'Elanna Torres in mind; and one time B'Elanna wrote one for Tom. Rated T for just a touch of language. Written for the inaugural Deck Nine exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [R_S_B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_S_B/gifts).



> My gift for RSB for the inaugural Deck Nine exchange. Her prompt was: Tom makes B'Elanna a holodeck program. What is it? Why? Could take place any time during or after the series. Many thanks go to Sareki and Photogirl1890 for their always invaluable advice and editing skills! My stories would be much lower quality without their input.
> 
> This first chapter makes references to season 1's The Cloud.

 

Newly reinstated Lieutenant (junior grade) Thomas Eugene Paris stared at the empty holodeck grid in consternation. Three weeks into their little "detour" to the Delta Quadrant, and he'd finally snagged his first two hour block of time to do whatever his heart desired. He'd been waiting his whole life to have free rein in one of these things - holodeck use by Academy cadets was strictly limited to academic research and physical training exercises, and entertainment wasn't exactly a priority on the _Val Jean_ or at the penal colony.

But now that he had the holodeck, he didn't have a clue what to do with it. He'd started simple - a coffee shop in San Francisco that he'd frequented as a cadet. But one look around the eclectic but cozy interior nearly had him running for the door - too many memories of people he wasn't ready to think about. Next was Italy - when he was thirteen, he had spent a month at Lake Como with his parents and sisters. It was one of the last family vacations of which he had happy, uncomplicated memories. But, no, too many things he didn't want to dwell on there as well. He'd saved both programs, thinking he might want to take a look at them again sometime in the very distant future. Tonight, though, he just wanted to have some fun.

And then it hit him - Chez Sandrine! He'd wasted many an hour there during his physical training semester at the Academy, working on his pool game. After a lifetime of being paraded in front of Starfleet bigwigs and alien diplomats, the down and out nature of the little tavern had held a lot of appeal for a young cadet newly outside the sphere of his father's influence. He called up the interior of the building using Federation records, and looked around at his creation. Hmm. Granted, he'd been pretty inebriated the last time he'd been there, but the place was a lot… dingier than he remembered.

It didn't take long for Tom to jazz it up - he added well-polished wood accents to the walls, patched the torn felt on the pool table, adjusted the sconces to mimic soft candlelight. There still wasn't any life to the place, though. The real Sandrine's had a host of regulars (some more unsavory than others) as well as a continually changing population of cadets and university students that wanted an "authentic" (read "no synthehol") French experience. If the 'Fleeters didn't all think of him as a hopeless fuck-up, and the Maquis didn't think of him as a despicable traitor, he might have been able to invite some real people. But since that wasn't going to happen, photonic ones would have to do.

Within a few minutes, he had a variety of characters spread throughout the room - some stock holograms, some pool sharks on whom he could practice his rusty skills, and a few people he remembered from the real Sandrine's. Even the old proprietor Marthe was there. She had been nearly as run down as the original bar, unfortunately, and her interest in him when he had still been a relatively fresh-faced cadet had always creeped him out a little. So he'd cleaned her up as well, and rechristened her Sandrine. Pathetically, he programmed the whole lot to know and admire him. _You are one sad sack, Paris._

In for a penny, in for a pound, was the next thing he decided - if he was going to sink so low as to program himself a bar full of friends, he might as well make himself a more… _intimate_ companion. It had been a long year in prison, after all, and it's not like he'd gotten any during his brief stint in the Maquis, either. Besides, Sandrine's had that room upstairs - it would be a shame to let it go to waste.

And just like that, _Voyager_ 's computer produced him a date. She was a little generic looking, in Tom's opinion - a statuesque blonde with big blue eyes and curves in all the right places. Her skin looked soft, and her lips were full, but something about her expression was… cold. And it wasn't just that the ship hadn't given her a personality subroutine yet.

"Computer, reduce height by… ten centimeters. Shorten the hair. Make it around chin length, wavy, and dark brown - nearly black. And brown eyes, too." Tom circled the projection. Better, but not quite there yet. "Uh… alter the skin tone to more of an olive complexion. And I want an athletic build. Lean, but fit." Yes, this was definitely more of what he was looking for. But there was something just a bit off. Something about the forehead - it was too small, or too smooth, or… _Oh. Shit_.

Tom pursed his lips as he considered that he had just created a holographic all-human version of _Voyager'_ s brand spanking new Chief Engineer - a hologram he was planning on ravishing in very short order. There was no question B'Elanna Torres was an attractive woman, but apparently his subconscious found her even more fascinating than he realized. This was not a good idea. She'd broken Joe Carey's nose just for questioning her expertise. God only knew what she'd do to Tom Paris, universally loathed traitor, if she discovered _this_.

A few quick commands produced a suitable substitute - halfway between the original woman and his Torres' near-clone. A few more commands, and "Ricky" was helplessly, hopelessly, in lust with him. He felt a twinge of regret as he took the final version upstairs, half wishing he'd kept the previous iteration. But there was a reason it was strongly discouraged to make holographic versions of people you knew in "real" life - how awkward would the next briefing be if every time he looked at Torres he thought of _this_? It crossed his mind that he could bring the actual B'Elanna Torres here, but he laughed at himself before the thought could even finish forming. He was quite sure _Voyager_ 's Chief Engineer was more likely to go on a date with their hairy new cook before she'd even deign to give the Senior Conn Officer the time of day.

When he returned downstairs with his holo-date a respectable interval later, he felt strangely empty and unsatisfied. Clearly, it wasn't just physical companionship he was missing. He gave a deep sigh as he looked around the program. Nearly an hour left, and the truth was, he was ready to shut it back down. It just wasn't very enjoyable without someone, a _real_ someone, to share it with. And it would likely be months, if not years, before any of the crew would be willing to be seen with him _that_ way. But… maybe having at least a friend here would make it better.

"Computer - what's the current location of Ensign Harry Kim?"

A few days later, when hopelessly upbeat, naive Harry, (who stubbornly insisted on seeing the best in everyone - even wretched, cynical ex-cons), invited members of the crew to join them at Sandrine's - they came, much to Tom's surprise. The Captain had even shown up. And it had been _fun._ Even when Torres called him a pig. Of course, outwardly, he'd frowned and pretended offense. But what he'd really been thinking was: _Lady, you don't know the half of it..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to season 3's The Chute and The Swarm

 

"Computer, increase ambient temperature to thirty degrees Celsius." A sailboat needed a good breeze to move, after all - and he wanted his companion to be warm enough that she'd be comfortable out on the lake. Of course, Tom considered, if she was just a little bit chilly, that meant she'd need warming up… "Computer, belay that. Keep the temperature at twenty-five degrees."

Tom grinned at the trim little sailboat that he had tied to the dock. Everything was perfect. Calm, crystal clear water and a blue sky with just the right amount of clouds. Now all he had to do was convince Torres to join him.

Even before their capture by the Vidiians, Tom had found the engineer intriguing. But when they were together in that terrible mine - stripped of her Klingon traits, B'Elanna had shown him a vulnerable side that he never would have guessed even existed. As privileged as he'd felt at the time that she'd exposed herself so utterly to him, even he could tell that without her Klingon half, she wasn't complete. Given what she'd told him, he imagined she had felt conflicted when the Doc told her he had to reintegrate her Klingon DNA, but Tom had been relieved. Without it, she wouldn't have been the B'Elanna Torres he knew - the one he'd been desperately wanting to get to know better ever since.

Not that he had told anyone about his interest - not even Harry. _Especially_ not Harry. His best friend was one of the worst gossips on the ship and Tom Paris was nothing if not a realist. As someone who walked around with his personal shields fully in place, he could recognize a kindred spirit. He and B'Elanna might share the occasional laugh or two (frequently at Harry's expense), but a lack of outright antagonism did not equal a desire for a deeper relationship. He knew convincing Torres to join him for anything more intimate than a drink with Harry serving as chaperone would take cunning, finesse, and a clear escape route in case she took the whole thing the wrong way. He also knew there was a very good chance it would all end in total rejection; and while he was well acquainted with failure, he wasn't necessarily looking to have the whole ship know about it.

And so he focused on his long game - find out her hobbies (outside of the warp core and monitoring plasma flow), just enough flirting to show interest but not so much that she had to take it seriously if she didn't want to, and subtle interrogations of Harry to see if there was anyone else sniffing around. Ever since Seska had been exposed as Cardassian, the young ops officer seemed to be Torres' closest friend on board. Lucky for Tom, Harry was his closest friend as well, and he'd been a useful, if not complicit, source of intel.

"Where are we?"

Tom startled at the sudden voice and turned to address the speaker. "Sheesh, Harry - ever heard of knocking?"

"On what?" his friend replied. "The dock? You didn't have the privacy lock on. I didn't think you'd mind some company. I'll go. Sorry I bothered you."

"No, stay," Tom said quickly. "You surprised me is all. I'm still a little jumpier than normal."

"Yeah." Harry sighed deeply as he came to stand beside Tom at the edge of the dock. "Me, too."

Tom nudged him with an elbow. "It's only been a few days. You'll be OK. Give it some time."

Up until four days ago, Tom and Harry had been imprisoned in a brutal penitentiary in the Akritiri system. Janeway and Tuvok had rescued them, but not before Tom had been badly injured and both men had had barbaric clamps plugged into their brains - jacking up their anxiety and hostility. It had been a close call, even for the Delta Quadrant, and Tom was pretty sure Harry had never faced his own dark side in such an up close and personal way before. He was doing his best to reassure the younger man that a momentary lapse didn't change the inherently good person he was.

"To answer your question," Tom said now, deciding that changing the subject was the best idea at the moment, "we're at Lake Como, in Italy. My family and I vacationed here once. It's where I learned to sail."

"Nice," Harry said, clearly relieved to avoid another conversation about Akritiri. "Pretty small boat, though. Looks like there's only room for two."

"That's what makes you such an outstanding officer, Mr. Kim." Tom grinned at him. "Your keen powers of observation."

"Megan Delaney?" Harry smiled knowingly.

Ah yes… Megan. Truth was, while Tom had enjoyed chatting with Megan a time or two, and there was no denying her physical appeal; there was no _there_ there. She was thoughtful, intelligent, and... they had not a single thing in common. Honestly, she was a better match for Harry. But better his loose-lipped friend think he was interested in one of the Delaney sisters than know about the real object of his affection. Even when Tom had been half delirious with fever and pain in that prison, he'd been lucid enough to claim Megan was the one he was dreaming about rather than admit the truth.

"Maybe," Tom said, winking at him. "We'll see. Come on - let's grab some dinner."

As they made their way to the mess hall, Harry continued to ask him questions about the program, as he'd never been to Italy himself, and knew little about sailing. "You know who does like sailing, though?" Harry asked him. "B'Elanna. Weird since she comes from a colony that's basically a desert."

"That is weird," Tom replied, feigning disinterest. Truth was, he knew all about Torres' interest in sailing. His renewed interest in the Lake Como program was not a coincidence. Not two weeks ago, a few days before Harry and Tom had gone on shore leave on Akritiri actually, he'd overheard a conversation that peaked his interest.

He'd been queued up for breakfast in the mess, waiting for Neelix's latest culinary catastrophe, when he heard B'Elanna relating the details of a long ago date to Harry from where they sat at a nearby table.

"God, Starfleet, it was a disaster! He was constantly trying to impress me with what an expert he was at everything, and he mentioned how he'd grown up sailing in the Maldives. I'd never been sailing, and it sounded like fun, so I finally broke down and agreed to go out with him. It started out nice - I liked being out on the water, and he'd brought a nice picnic. But then weather happened."

"Weather?" Harry asked, confused. "Like a storm? Was there something wrong with the meteorological shielding?"

"No. I mean weather like the gentle breeze became more of a stiff wind, and there were waves. I thought it was kind of fun, honestly, bobbing up and down; but apparently there's no such thing as waves in the Maldives. Within ten minutes the boat capsized."

Harry was laughing now.

"Mr. Paris? Vermillion or chartreuse?"

"What?" Tom said, straining to hear how B'Elanna's story ended.

"Your omelet!" Neelix yelled in his typical cheerful bluster. "Your choice!"

"Oh," Tom said, sparing his plate a worried glance. "Uh, vermillion, I guess. Thanks." He turned his attention back just in time to catch the end.

"...and then he started panicking, and _I_ had to save _him_ from drowning, despite freezing my ass off. He was so embarrassed he started blaming me for all of it. Needless to say, that was our one and only date." She stabbed a bit of greenish egg off her plate. "I do wish I could have gone sailing again, though. Just with someone who knew what he was doing."

And so an idea was born. His recent near-death experience only stressed the importance of seizing the moment. Their lives out here in the Delta Quadrant were precarious at best - he didn't want to die knowing he hadn't taken the very small risk of asking B'Elanna Torres out on a date.

"You know who'd like that program?" Harry asked him now as they boarded the 'lift for the mess hall.

"B'Elanna," he said, deliberately casual. "You said that already."

"No," Harry corrected him. "Freddy Bristow."

Tom threw him a look. "Um... I'm pretty much up for anything, but I don't think Bristow will want to go sailing with me. I'm not exactly his type."

"Ha. Ha." Harry replied with a roll of his eyes. "I mean, he'd want to use the program with B'Elanna."

Tom had to check himself from calling for an all-stop to the turbolift. "What are you talking about?"

"Nicoletti filled me in," his friend said conspiratorially. "Bristow's been hanging around Engineering a ton lately. Way more than he has any reason to. And last night he and B'Elanna played parrises squares. For two hours."

"Oh," Tom choked out. "Well, Lake Como is kind of a personal program. I don't think I'll be making it public."

"Sure," Harry said, nodding and winking. "You don't want anything to interrupt your time with Megan."

Tom forced a laugh, but even he knew it sounded weak. Bristow. _Fuck._ Despite the man's milquetoast-y name, he was of Mediterranean heritage - tall, dark, and his skin tone made him look like he'd been sculpted out of bronze. How did the man even stay that color on a starship, for God's sake? Did he have UV lights strewn around his quarters? Hell, Tom himself would do Bristow, if he thought the other man was into that kind of thing. This was not good. Apparently he needed to move up his timeline.

_"Janeway to Paris."_

Tom tapped his comm badge. "Go ahead, Captain."

_"I've reviewed your report. I agree it's worth taking a closer look at those energy signatures you detected, but I don't want to alter course. Plan to take a shuttle out in the morning to investigate, and take Lieutenant Torres with you."_

"Acknowledged, Captain. I'll file my flight plan by 1900."

"Too bad," Harry said after the Captain signed off. "That's going to take all day. Now you won't have time to try that new program out on Megan until next week."

Tom smiled to himself. _Yeah, all day alone with B'Elanna Torres in a shuttlecraft. Sounds like torture._ "I'll put on a brave face, Harry. You know I always try to make the best of things."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to season 5's Extreme Risk and Once Upon a Time (and a tiny bit of In the Flesh). And many thanks to Sareki for letting me riff off her idea (from her wonderful story A Bit of Perspective) that Tom recorded that terrible goodbye message because he thought B'Elanna had dumped him.

 

"Confirm message deletion from all relevant databases."

"Yes, computer," Tom declared, "A million times, yes. Get rid of it."

Tom flopped back onto his couch with a stretch of his arms and a loud yawn, taking a moment to relish all the oxygen circulating through his cabin before he moved to the next item on his agenda. This time yesterday, he'd once again been only minutes away from certain death when his fellow crewmembers pulled him (and Tuvok and Sam) back from the brink. Today, he was still riding the edge of the high being faced with own mortality always gave him.

While this time it was the result of an accident, this particular exhilarating feeling was one which he had plenty of experience seeking out. Not a few times during his adventurous childhood, his mother, angry and worried all at once, had paced their local emergency room, accusing him of having a "death wish." He could recall hearing something similar from the EMH once, as well. (He'd been concussed at the time, so the details were a bit fuzzy. _Hmm. Maybe Mom and the Doc had a point_.)

The truth was, though, despite an addiction to adrenaline, Tom was rather fond of being alive. Even in his darkest moments - and there had been many - he grimly, determinedly, kept on living. So yesterday, when he first heard the sound of the phaser drills digging them out, he'd been so overwhelmed with gratitude for his rescuers that, not helped by the lack of oxygen, he'd nearly passed out. Right now, however, the reason he was grateful was that his girlfriend would never hear that stupid, stupid good-bye message.

Because, as it turned out, he _did_ still have a girlfriend after all. He really hadn't been sure when he'd left five days ago on what turned into a nearly fatal away mission.

When he'd found out what had been going on with B'Elanna and the holodeck, he'd been filled with guilt. He couldn't believe that he hadn't realized how depressed she'd been (maybe still was?) about the death of the other Maquis in the Alpha Quadrant. He'd been angry with himself that he'd missed all the signs. But he'd been kind of angry with her, too - hadn't he asked her, three or four or a dozen times, to tell him what was wrong, only to be rebuffed over and over again?

After she'd joined them at the last minute on the _Delta_ _Flyer_ 's first mission, likely saving all their necks, she seemed back on track, professionally speaking - engaged during briefings, having pissing contests with Seven again. But on a more personal level, she and Tom had still been at odds. Tom realized now that this might have been his fault. In their first moments alone, a few hours after they'd safely returned the _Flyer_ to _Voyager_ , Tom had jumped right in with both feet - Why would she hurt herself that way? How could being in physical pain possibly help her feel better? Why couldn't she just tell him she was still grieving?

It had not gone over well.

They'd had an epic argument. She'd accused him of badgering her and only adding to her stress; he'd accused her of shutting everyone out. And then he found she hadn't shut _everyone_ out, at least she wasn't anymore. It was just _Tom_ that she didn't want to talk to. And while a small part of him was happy to see her return to normal, fiery, form as they argued - he'd been hurt and yes, angry, that she was willing to open up to Chakotay but still wouldn't share her feelings with him. But as was his usual strategy, (after she chased him out of her quarters and locked the door behind him), he thought it best to give her a couple of days to cool off before trying to speak to her again.

And then they'd found that strange space station that Species 8472 had turned into San Francisco, (Tom had been ruthless with his best friend when they'd ID'ed the aliens involved. "What's wrong, Harry? You're looking a little... green.") And within twenty-four hours of that mess being settled, the Captain asked the pilot to take the _Flyer_ on the ill-fated survey mission with Sam and Tuvok. Despite sending B'Elanna a message saying he'd be gone for a few days, he hadn't heard a word from her. Not even a texted good-bye. And so he left _Voyager_ wondering if that last fight they'd had really was their last one.

But apparently a near death experience, much like absence, makes the heart grow fonder. When the _Flyer_ 's hatch had opened in the shuttlebay, Tom had been almost immediately enveloped into a rib crushing hug.

"Hey," he coughed, not sure if his eyes were watering from emotion or lack of oxygen, "I thought you didn't like PDA."

B'Elanna released him from her arms and took a miniscule step back, allowing him to take a much needed breath. "Shut up," she said, her eyes bright with unshed tears. And then she kissed him. Deeply.

B'Elanna hadn't let him out of her sight when he headed to Sickbay to get cleared, and she followed him back to his quarters and waited patiently while he showered. She then made it abundantly clear that she had no intentions of complying with the Doctor's strict instructions that Tom take it easy for the next twenty-four hours and get plenty of rest. ("And by 'rest', Mr. Paris, I mean minimal physical activity." Tom hadn't missed the pointed look the EMH had directed towards the smirking Chief Engineer.) Not that Tom had complained about any of this, especially not the part where he'd fallen asleep, exhausted and curled around B'Elanna's naked form.

She'd arisen early this morning to report for duty, admonishing him to stay in bed for a few more hours when he tried to get up as well. She was chattier than he'd seen her in weeks. "So did you record a message?" she asked him as she dressed.

"Huh?" Tom said, his brain still sluggish.

"You know, one of those 'good-bye and thanks for all the memories,' things that Starfleet suggests. God, what's that stupid protocol called? 'So You Think You're Going to Die: A Tutorial'" She turned to grin at him, but the corners of her mouth fell when she saw the look on his face. "Tom?"

"Yeah?" he said, distracted by the thought of terrible jokes about pizza and his final recorded words being "So long!" like he was signing off from _A Briefing with Neelix_. "I'm fine," he reassured her when he saw her look of concern. "Just a little tired still. And no, I didn't record a message. I couldn't really think of anything to say."

"Oh," was all she said, and he didn't miss her disappointment. "Anyway, I better get to Engineering and let you get some real rest."

"B'Elanna," he called to her as she reached the door to his quarters. "Thanks - for staying last night."

"Sure," she smiled. A pause. "I missed you."

"Me, too," Tom said, tempted to get up and pull her back into bed. "How about we do something tonight? Just you and me. I'll get some holodeck time."

She lingered at his doorway for another beat. "I'd like that."

As the door slid shut behind her, Tom felt his stomach sink. Holodeck time? _Stellar move, genius._ Yes, let's invite the woman that was just using the holodeck to physically beat the mourning out of herself on a date to the _fucking holodeck_. God, he was an idiot. He had a lot to make up for with B'Elanna - how he'd been so oblivious to the pain she was in, how clumsily he handled it when he'd found out. They both had a lot of work to do to get their relationship back on track. This was not an auspicious beginning.

After deleting the awful message he was now blaming on hypoxia, he got to work on a program for tonight. He started by running through some of his favorites, and a few he'd been meaning to try out. Base jumping? He recalled something about orbital skydiving gone wrong when B'Elanna was deep in the throes of her depression, so no - bad idea. Next up was… rock climbing! Hmm. Kind of dangerous, and it might bring back memories of Vorik's rogue _pon farr_ \- she still didn't really like to talk about that. No go. Hang gliding, whitewater rafting, cave diving - no, no and no. He needed something safe, boring even - something that wasn't going to trigger memories of how she tried to bury the pain of her lost friends. These programs were all wrong.

Maybe he was approaching this the wrong way. He needed to stop thinking about what he wanted to do and think about what B'Elanna might enjoy. The problem was, he wasn't sure what that was anymore. A few months ago, she would have gladly joined him on a lot of his more adventurous outings, but now… Well, he just had to stick to what he knew for certain. _She likes to be warm. Start with someplace warm…_

* * *

"This is nice," B'Elanna said, for the second time, sipping a fruity drink from a straw. "It kind of reminds me of Neelix's resort program."

 _Ouch_. "I'm glad you like it. I remember you saying once you want to go to Maui."

"It was Fiji actually," she corrected him, then quickly added, "But I like this, too."

They sat in near silence, the only sound was that of the ocean lapping at the white beach that stretched before them.

"I guess I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop," B'Elanna said finally.

"The other shoe?"

"This isn't exactly your style, Tom," she said. "Gentle breeze. Minimal waves. When are we going surfing? Or free diving? You don't even have paddle boards out."

 _God, am I that obvious?_ "I just thought something quiet would be nice for a change," was all he said in response, as he watched the sun start to dip towards the horizon.

She finished her drink with a loud, prolonged slurp. "It certainly is quiet," she agreed.

More silence.

A long moment passed before he heard her huff a frustrated sigh. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

 _Finally!_ "Yeah. I'd like that. If you're ready."

She sat up on her lounge chair, looking at him askance. "If _I'm_ ready? You're the one that nearly died."

"Nearly died? What are you talking about?" he asked, returning her dubiousness with interest.

Now she just looked alarmed. "Yesterday. On the _Flyer_. It got buried on that planetoid," she said slowly, putting her hand on his forehead like she was checking for a fever. "Maybe we should cut this short and take a pass by Sickbay."

He shook his head, dislodging her hand. "That's not what I meant," he said, rolling his eyes. "I remember what happened yesterday. But why do you think I want to talk about that? It's the Delta Quadrant, I nearly die three or four times a month. This one was actually pretty tame, in the grand scheme of things."

"Then what's this boring ass program all about?" she demanded, gesturing at the isolated beach.

"You," he said simply. "I was worried… I didn't want to trigger something…" He shrugged, not really sure how to articulate his lingering concerns about her.

B'Elanna threw herself back into the lounge chair with an annoyed snort. "This again."

"Again?" Tom said, his irritation rising. She'd been secretly injuring herself, badly and repeatedly, and he was just supposed to forget about it? "When did we talk about it the first time?"

"I'm fine now!" she snapped. "The Doctor put me on an anti-depressant, I've been talking to Chakotay, and I'm fine. So stop hassling me about it!"

"Maybe I'm not fine!" he countered. "Shit, B'Elanna. When I found out what you'd been doing - how close I came to losing you… And I didn't have a fucking clue! I feel like I failed you," he said, his voice dropping. "I know I'm not good about saying it - maybe I'm not even good at showing it - but I love you. It kills me that you wouldn't - that you _couldn't_ come to me with this."

B'Elanna's shoulders dropped. She blew out a long breath of air as she pulled her legs up onto the lounger and hugged her knees. "You didn't fail me. This wasn't… _isn't_ about you, not really. But I know I've been distant, and I'm sorry. When you were gone, Chakotay and I talked a lot-"

"Of course," Tom bristled. "Chakotay."

She glared at him. "Will you just listen for a minute?" Her expression softened again, and her eyes turned back to the shore. "When it was happening, when I was really in the thick of it - I didn't want to talk to you, or anyone really… because I knew you'd just try to fix everything."

"Why's that so terrible?" he mumbled.

"Because I was afraid it couldn't be fixed. Because maybe on some level, I wasn't ready for it to be fixed. Everything felt so dull, blunted. It wasn't good - but it wasn't bad either." She shook her head, as if trying to clear her thoughts.

"What about now?" he asked her. "Can you talk to me now? I want to understand. Why you would do something like that? Were you trying to… Did you want to die?"

"No," she assured him. "It wasn't like that. It was about feeling… something, anything. It was about pain I could control." She shifted her head so that her hair swung forward and covered her face. "I want you to understand. But I don't want you to treat me like I'm going to break. I can handle this. I _am_ handling it. I'm fine, Tom. Or… I'm getting there."

Sensing an opening, he moved to sit next to her on her lounger. When she didn't immediately move away, he placed his fingers on her back, gently tracing the ridges that went down her spine. "I just want to be there for you."

She raised her eyes then. "I know you do. And I know you love me." She gestured again at their surroundings. "Even when you show me in the most asinine way possible." She smiled at the chuckle her comment elicited. "You just need to give me some time."

"Just… try not to shut me out anymore, OK?" Tom asked, squeezing her foot gently.

"I'll try," she said, then straightened. "Now can we please _do_ something? I'm bored as hell. You should have told me to bring a book."

Tom stood, his mouth quirked. "There might be some ocean kayaks under those palm trees over there. And a pristine reef about a kilometer off shore."

She reached up and patted him on the cheek. "There's the flyboy I know and love." Her eyes gleamed. "Race you!" she yelled over her shoulder as she took off towards the trees, the sand flying behind her.

"Hey! What happened to Klingon honor?" Tom called out, laughing as he ran down the shore after her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to the season 7 episode Lineage

Tom considered himself a pretty even tempered guy. A good pilot had to be, as a rule. You couldn't lose your shit every time something went wrong. Every second counted - you had to stay calm, have complete confidence in your abilities, and make quick adjustments when needed - no time for hissy fits.

But right now he was so pissed off he felt like he could rip someone's head off with his bare hands. A holographic head, particularly.

As he stormed down the corridors that lay between him and Sickbay, various crew members scattered out of his way, the expressions on their faces similar to ones he usually only saw elicited by his wife, or maybe the Captain before her first cup of coffee. He paused outside the doors to the medical bay. The Doctor generally didn't respond well to full-frontal assaults - they only made him even more condescending and sarcastic than usual. No, Tom had to regain his composure and calmly, rationally explain to the hologram exactly why it was that he was a complete asshole.

The doors slid open to reveal Sam Wildman and the Doctor reviewing the results of a biobed diagnostic. At the first glimpse of that supercilious bald head, Tom lost every trace of his self-possession. "Doc! What the hell is the matter with you?"

Before the Doctor could recover from his shock and offense, Sam cautiously approached Tom with a look of concerned confusion on her face. "Tom? What's all over your shoulder?" She walked around the fuming pilot, her nose wrinkling. "And your back?"

"That," he said, panting through his nose, "would be spit up. From a holographic baby. An angry, frustrated holographic baby. That he programmed!"

Sam had grabbed a cloth and was doing her best to clean Tom's uniform. "I don't understand. If it's from a holographic baby…"

"Replicated vomitus adds to the experience, of course," the EMH interrupted her, looking very determinedly at his tricorder and refusing to make eye contact with Tom. "When the lieutenants' actual infant arrives, her spit up won't simply disappear at will. Better to get accustomed to it now. Don't worry, Mr. Paris, the program used very little of your replicator rations, considering the immense amounts of knowledge and practical experience you're acquiring."

Tom's jaw nearly hit the floor at that. "You used my rations? To make this?" He gestured wildly at his still stained uniform.

"Of course," the Doctor said, his expression clearly indicating he was astounded by such a ridiculous inquiry. "Why would I use my rations for your baby care program? And really, Mr. Paris, I'm surprised at you. Will you get this upset at your daughter just because of a little spit up?"

"I'm not upset about the spit up, Doc," he near growled. "I'm upset because you gave us a baby that cried for over an hour straight!"

"Only an hour?" the EMH said brightly. "I'm impressed! Perhaps you will be a competent parent after all. However did you manage to soothe her?"

"I shut the damn program down! That's how!"

The Doctor regarded him reproachfully. "Typical. You won't be able to shut your daughter off when she cries, you know."

Sam had been watching the two men like she was at a tennis match. "I'm a little confused. What sort of baby care program was this?"

"As the future godfather of the not-yet-named Torres-Paris baby-"

"That can be changed," Tom muttered.

With a long suffering sigh, the Doctor continued. "I decided that Mr. Paris and Lieutenant Torres needed more practical experience in child rearing, versus just reading a text on the subject. Neither one has been intimately involved with the care of an infant before. As it's often wise to be prepared for the worst case scenario, the child I programmed was suffering from infantile colic."

"Colic?" Sam queried. "Isn't that quite rare these days?"

"It's true that idiopathic infantile colic only occurs in roughly 0.15 percent of Klingon children, but it's significantly more common in human babies."

"Oh?" Tom remarked, eyes narrowed. "How common?"

The EMH picked at a loose thread in the mattress of the biobed for several seconds before answering. "0.98 percent."

Tom was feeling some real sympathy for his wife's occasional outbursts of rage right now. "So you made B'Elanna cry, lock herself in our quarters, and claim that she's going to give up the baby for adoption at the next M class planet we see for a less than one percent chance of colic? My wife is not a crier, Doc. Do you have any idea what you've done to her?"

Sam frowned at the hologram in disappointment. "Oh, Doctor."

The Doctor had the good grace to look remorseful. "Well, I certainly didn't intend to upset her! At least not that much."

"You do remember what happened less than three weeks ago, don't you? When we first found out she was pregnant and her hormones were all out of whack? It didn't occur to you that giving her the holographic baby from hell was a bad idea?" Tom had given up all pretense that he wasn't enraged. He was pretty sure the Captain could hear him yelling from her Ready Room at this point.

Unfortunately his (completely justifiable!) anger had given the Doc an opening to drop his guilt in favor of acting put upon. "Mr. Paris," he sniffed. "I was simply trying to prepare you for the myriad difficulties you will be facing once the baby arrives. It seems to me that you should be grateful that you are now aware of how woefully unprepared you are for fatherhood, so you have the time to take appropriate measures." He put the tricorder on the biobed. "Now if you'll excuse me, since you and Lieutenant Torres have elected to end your holodeck time early - there's a golf course in Scotland with my name on it."

As the Doctor walked out the doors of Sickbay, Tom extended both hands in his preferred obscene gesture. He heard Sam clear her throat behind him, and turned to her, an apologetic smile in place. "Sorry, Sam," he said in the face of her disapproving frown.

Sam's face broke into a wide grin. "I'm just teasing, Tom." She returned to her diagnostic. "If you think I haven't flipped the occasional bird at that pompous hologram, you'd be dead wrong. Don't look at me like that," she said in response to Tom's raised eyebrows. "Just because I'm Naomi's mother doesn't mean I'm not a human being. And that's what B'Elanna needs to hear right now."

"She needs to hear that you've given the Doc the ol' silent 'fuck you'?" Tom asked, amused.

"No," Sam said patiently. "She needs to hear that becoming a mother isn't going to change her - for better or for worse. If you think too much about the day to day grind of caring for a baby, it's overwhelming - the diapers, the feeding, the lack of sleep. There's no question it's hard and sometimes feels all-consuming. But she'll get through it, just like a billion mothers before her. And when all is said and done, she'll still be the same person - just one with a baby. That goes for you, too."

"That's what I'm worried about," Tom groaned. "Maybe the Doc's right. Maybe this program upset me so much because I know we're not ready to be parents. B'Elanna and I have barely figured out how to live together, much less raise a child."

"You know what I think?" Sam asked him. "I think the Doctor doesn't know what he's talking about. When was the last time he had to raise an infant? He tried to babysit Naomi for me once when she was eight months old, and called me after twenty minutes because he couldn't handle it."

Tom brightened immediately. "Why am I just hearing about this?"

"Because he made me promise not to tell anyone," Sam replied. "But given what he just put you and B'Elanna through, I think he deserves to be taken down a peg. My point is this: forget his stupid holo-program. Heck, you can even forget most of the books. You and B'Elanna are both smart, caring people who want to be good parents. You'll figure out what works for your baby once she gets here. I promise. And when you get stumped, you can ask me for help - any time day or night. I mean it."

"Thanks, Sam," Tom said, genuinely touched. "I forget sometimes - how hard it must have been for you, must be for you - raising Naomi on your own."

"I have about a hundred and forty helpers, actually. It's not so bad," she said with a wistful smile. She cleared her throat and pulled him over to a wall console. "And now I'm going to help you. You need a new program - one that can wipe all traces of that evil hologram from B'Elanna's mind."

"Are you talking about the colicky baby or the Doctor?"

"Yes," she said, grinning at him. "Now tell me what B'Elanna likes to do to relax." She tapped a few buttons to call up the holodeck controls.

"I didn't know you were into holo-programming," Tom said as he peered over her shoulder, wondering what else he was going to learn about the xenobiologist and part-time medic today.

"I'm not," she said. "I'm terrible at it. I'm just the idea man - you're going to have to do all the work."

* * *

 

"Thank you," B'Elanna said, as she reached across their neighboring Adirondack chairs to give Tom's hand a squeeze. They were relaxing on the back deck of an oceanfront cottage on the coast of Maine after a few hours of sailing on the Atlantic. The holographic sun's final rays were fading, and a gentle breeze was cooling what remained of the hot August day. "This was exactly what I needed."

"Good," Tom smiled at her. "You deserve it." It had taken quite a bit of finagling, but he'd managed to get eighteen consecutive hours on the holodeck for just the two of them. Harry had graciously sacrificed his planned hike in the Andes, Joe Carey agreed to swap for a block Tom had for the following week, and four of the hours he'd guilted out of the Doctor after subjecting the EMH to a prolonged, lurid description of all the distress and anxiety the baby care program had triggered in his wife. "More fried clams? Or we could walk over for ice cream?"

"Ugh, no. I'm completely stuffed," B'Elanna groaned, rubbing her stomach. "But I do need to ask you something. I'm not complaining, but I thought you said this program had something to do with the baby. I haven't seen a child yet - not even on the beach earlier."

"I said it was a 'baby-moon'," Tom clarified. "It was a term used in the early twenty-first century - a little time away for a couple before their first child shows up."

"Stupid name," B'Elanna remarked, then turned to smile at her husband. "But a fantastic idea."

It wasn't that long before B'Elanna thought maybe walking for ice cream was a good idea, after all. But just for the walk - she didn't really need anything more to eat. Except the little walk-up stand did have a banana chip ice cream. How big could a kiddie cone be, really? And maybe she could have just a lick or two of Tom's. Just to try it - she'd never heard of ice cream called "Moose Tracks" before.

After Tom jogged back to the stand to get himself a replacement cone, they sat in the sand on the darkened beach, watching a programmed meteor shower in comfortable silence. When B'Elanna's head got progressively heavier on Tom's shoulder, he pulled his wife up the cottage's stairs to the bedroom. Once in the upper hallway, he paused at a closed door. "There's one more thing I need to show you," he said quietly as he eased the door open.

In the center of the room was a cream colored crib, bathed in moonlight from an overhead window. The nighttime sounds of crickets and the occasional owl were now accompanied by a soft, rhythmic breathing. Tom gently pulled B'Elanna in when she hesitated at the doorway, giving her an encouraging smile. "It's OK," he reassured her. "I promise you'll like this."

He wrapped his arm around his wife and they leaned over the side of the crib. It was the holographic projection of their daughter - curly brown hair, gentle ridges across the forehead - but this time, she was sound asleep, wrapped in a cozy green sleeper decorated with ducks and sheep. Her mouth worked a little at an imaginary bottle, and soon found a tiny, perfect fist to suck on. And with that, the baby let out a deep, contented sigh.

"Oh, Tom," B'Elanna breathed, as she grasped his hand. "She's gorgeous. Thank you."

Tom kissed his wife's hair. "Thank Sam Wildman. This was her idea. She thought you might like a reminder that as crazy and hard as parenting can be - mostly what it is, is amazing."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Klingon is all taken from Bing Translator. I have no almost no knowledge of the language, so I apologize for any inaccuracies.

"Grandpa?"

Tom wiped quickly at his eyes, not wanting the boy to see how upset he was. " _Dochvam_ _nuq, puqnl'be'_?"

The boy came around to the front of Tom's seat, laughing. "Grandpa! Your accent is terrible! And you just called me 'granddaughter'!"

Tom took Amar's hands in his, pulling him close. "Maybe I need a better teacher," he growled in as stern a voice as he could manage, before he broke and laughed along with his grandson.

The boy climbed onto the armrest of the teak bench, perching there like a monkey. "I think Grandma might be right - you're hopeless. After all, we're going back to _Qo'noS_ in a week. I don't have much time left to help you."

A wave of melancholy swept over Tom, the momentary distraction Amar had provided fading. "No," he said sadly as he squeezed his grandson's knee with a freckled hand, "I suppose you don't."

Tom knew a grandfather wasn't supposed to have favorites, but in the very deepest, most secret recesses of his mind, he knew Amar was his. It wasn't that he didn't love Joe's children - Milo, Marja and Juuli were all bright and funny and kind, and brought him endless joy. But something about the only child of his firstborn tugged particularly at his heartstrings. Maybe it was because it had taken so long and there had been so many disappointments for Miral and her husband Shovar before they had a successful pregnancy. Maybe it was because the little family lived on _Qo'noS_ , and Tom only got to see them twice, maybe three times a year if he was lucky. Or maybe it was because, despite having the most Klingon blood of all of their grandkids, Amar was the one that most reminded him of Harry.

He and Harry hadn't always maintained close contact over the years, as happens when time and kids and light-years get in the way. But, as is the way with the best of friendships, the minute they saw each other again - in earlier years for weddings and reunions; in more recent ones, more often for funerals - it was like only days had passed. Tom and B'Elanna kept close track of his career, of course, as he flew his way up the ranks from lieutenant, to commander, to captain. When Owen was still alive, his father would often share the less publicized tidbits of Harry's exploits that he would hear from his old contacts at HQ. In the last few years of the Admiral's life, Tom would often joke that Harry was the child Owen always wished he'd had, but never with any rancor – the old arguments between father and son having been long put to rest.

And so it had been nearly two years since Tom and B'Elanna had last seen Harry when he showed up at _Voyager_ 's forty fifth reunion some fourteen months ago, and both members of the couple had been shocked at their friend's appearance. He was, simply put, old – far older than he should have looked given he was only seventy four. Harry had refused a promotion to admiral time and again, preferring to captain his own vessel on longer and longer deep space assignments, and it had finally caught up with him. He'd been in contact with a previously unknown type of ionizing radiation on his final mission; the exposure might have been treatable in a younger man, but at Harry's advanced age it would be slowly and painfully fatal.

"They've put me in some kind of damn glorified nursing home," he had complained to Tom, but in a resigned sort of way. "They won't even let me live by myself anymore."

"That's ridiculous!" Tom had sputtered in response. "You should…" He paused then, not sure what Harry should do, after all. There had never been a wife, nor children. His parents were long deceased, and he had been an only child. So then, knowing that he was risking a severe dressing down from his wife later, Tom asked Harry to come live with them in the house in Pacific Heights he'd inherited from Owen and Julia. "We've got plenty of space – it's just me and B'Elanna rattling around in there most of the time."

Harry refused, perhaps realizing that it wasn't the sort of offer Tom should be making without consulting his still formidable spouse. Talk then turned to Tom's third - or was it fourth? – career as a holonovelist, a hobby he had returned to after he and B'Elanna decided to retire and close their design firm. Harry suggested Tom's next adventure be entitled _Captain Proton vs. The Broken Hip_ , and then Naomi Wildman's youngest came to pester the famous Captain Kim for tales of his various adventures, and the topic hadn't come up again.

But only two weeks later, Harry suffered a rather severe complication to his condition, and Tom got a call from Starfleet Medical.

"I appreciate you letting me know," Tom told the young-looking doctor on his console, ( _Is there anybody that_ doesn't _look young anymore?_ ). "But I don't understand why you're calling _me_."

"Because you're listed as the Captain's next of kin, Mr. Paris," the doctor replied, obviously surprised Tom was unaware of this fact.

That did it. As it turned out, B'Elanna hadn't objected at all, and hadn't even let Tom finish asking her opinion on the matter before she had called up Starfleet Medical to arrange for a nurse, and ask what accommodations they'd need to make in their home so Harry's remaining life would be easier. "Why is this even a question, Tom? Of course he'll come here."

The three of them had had a little over a year together, both Tom and B'Elanna pestering Harry to get out of the house on sunnier days, B'Elanna sharing the latest engineering developments with him when he couldn't see well enough to read anymore, and Tom bouncing ideas for his holo-novels off him, doing what he could to distract his friend from his worsening pain and infirmity. It hadn't felt so different, really, from many, many years earlier, when they'd all first come together on Voyager.

But Harry had been gone for ten days now; at the end too weak to speak, but with enough spark to squeeze Tom's hand one last time before his eyes closed for good.

"Grandpa?" Amar pulled him out of his wallowing. "Can we still take Lonzak for a walk after dinner?" The big goofy hound in question, whom B'Elanna insisted was a mistake and a nuisance despite the fact that she slipped him a third of her dinner every night, thumped his tail against the ground at Tom's feet in response to hearing his name.

"Of course," Tom said, "We do every night after dinner."

"Grandma said you'd be busy."

"Busy?" Tom said, wracking his elderly synapses to see if he'd forgotten something. "Did she say-"

"Amar!" Miral called as she trotted down the back steps to the patio. " _nuq Data'_? I said to go get your grandfather, not talk his ear off. Go into the house. Your cousins are here."

"Miral!" Tom complained to his daughter as Amar went running back inside. "I said I didn't want anyone to make a fuss."

"It's Joe and Aatto and the kids. Who's making a fuss? It's not like the aunties or Maris or the cousins are coming." She nudged Lonzak out of the way, and sat on the bench next to her father. "It's your eightieth birthday. If you thought we weren't going to make a little bit of a fuss, you're going senile earlier than I expected."

"Disrespectful child," Tom chastised her as he smiled.

"Grumpy old man," Miral rejoindered, as she put her father's arm around her shoulders. "It's so cold out here! How can you stand it?"

"That's your Klingon blood talking," Tom said. "It's a gorgeous evening." And it was. The sun was starting to set over the Pacific, and had filled the sky with shades of rose and saffron and gold. Harry had come out here for as many sunsets as he had been able to manage - missing them after so many years in space. Tom pulled his daughter closer. "Thank you for coming," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "For the funeral, I mean."

"Of course, Daddy," she said, just as softly. "I loved him, too, you know."

"I know, Kitten," Tom said, his eyes misting again.

"For God's sake." An irate voice disrupted their moment. "I send two different people out here to get you, and I _still_ have to do it myself."

Tom grinned cheekily at his petite wife, years of marriage making it quite easy for him to tell if he was truly in hot water or not. This was a situation of not. "It's my fault," he said, heroically taking the blame as he extended a hand towards her. "I'm a bad influence."

"No one needs to tell _me_ that," B'Elanna replied, pulling him up with a grunt. "Come on you two. And you as well, Lonzak. Dinner's nearly ready."

Three hours, four kilos of prime rib roast, and one chocolate cake with vanilla frosting later, Aatto and Shovar took all four children and Lonzak for a late evening walk to wear them out before bed, and Joe and Miral volunteered to clean up the kitchen. B'Elanna led her husband into the basement.

"We've got a perfectly nice bed upstairs if you want a quiet place to make out. Or, you know, do other stuff," Tom said, as he picked his careful way down the steep stairs.

"You're incorrigible," B'Elanna retorted. "And that's later. First, I want to show you your birthday present." She gestured to the door in front of them.

"We had the holodeck installed nearly three years ago, dear," Tom said, confused. "Not much of a gift."

"The program I wrote for you is the gift," she growled.

"You wrote me a program? Really?" Tom was surprised, and touched by her gesture. Normally he could barely convince his wife to use his programs, much less write her own. "Do we need different clothes?"

She gave him a quick once over. "Nope, those will do. The program can overlay our costumes over what we're wearing." She keyed in a command on the door panel. "Go on."

Tom stepped through the door as it slid open, and smiled to himself as he took in the monochromatic scene before him, with all its familiar whirs and clicks and beeps, permeated by the faint smell of ozone. He looked down at himself, and saw the program had indeed covered his favorite sweater with Proton's trusty leather jacket, (although it was cut a bit more generously through the midsection than it used to be). He saw words flash into view on the main monitor on the rocket ship and read the story title: _Captain Proton's Last Stand_. He turned on his heel to look at his wife, still in full color on the other side of the holodeck door. "B'Elanna?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

"You're right," she said briskly. "Technically, I didn't write the program. Just finished it for you." She turned back to the control panel, but not before Tom saw the tell-tale brightening of her eyes that meant her business-like demeanor was just an act. She stepped through the door, and Tom saw her outfit also become concealed by a familiar costume - long-sleeve camp shirt, wide belt, and tall leather boots. B'Elanna gave him a sad smile. "I know I'm not really the person you wanted to do this with."

He'd gone to sit in the quiet and dark of this very same basement that terrible morning, with only Lonzak for company. Starfleet had sent a medical team over just after dawn to take Harry's body to the morgue; other staff from the hospital came a short while later to remove the equipment the Paris-Torres household would no longer need. He'd had enough, Harry had told Tom only thirty-six hours prior, no longer able to see, or sit up, or even swallow solid food. He was ready to let go. Tom had had to fight an urge to tell his friend no, that it was too soon, and he shouldn't give up. Instead, he'd just squeezed Harry's shoulder and said, "OK, buddy. I'll take care of it," and called the Doctor, whom two months ago told Tom that when the time came, he wanted to be there for his old friend.

When it was over - after the injections had been given, and Harry took his last slow breaths, and the Doctor signed the death certificate - Tom had gotten up from the bedside he hadn't left in over six hours, and exited the sickroom without a word to anyone.

"What are you doing?" B'Elanna had asked gently, when she found her husband's hiding spot, likely having followed the sounds of their dog's concerned whines. Tom's trembling hand was hovering over the key that would delete _Captain Proton's Last Stand_ forever.

"Why didn't I finish it?" he whispered in quiet anguish, as the first tears fell. "It was the only thing he asked me for. He said it was the last thing he wanted to do - one final chapter for us to share together. And I couldn't finish it."

"I don't know," B'Elanna said, moving his hand away from the console before she wrapped her arms around him. "Maybe it's _because_ it was the last thing he wanted to do. Maybe part of you thought if you didn't finish it, he'd keep on living."

"That's so stupid," he said, sobbing and laughing at himself at the same time. "Harry would give me so much shit if he knew that's why he never got to see it." And then he wept some more, and so did B'Elanna, both of them realizing how much they already missed their friend.

"So," Tom - rather, _Captain Proton -_ said, "Buster. You're a bit shorter than I remember. And you wear your pants a lot tighter, too." Proton's gaze dipped south as he circled his sidekick. "I also don't recall you having such a fine ass."

"With all due respect, Captain - you're a pig." Buster shot a withering glance at her commander.

"Oink," said Proton, his eyes twinkling.

Buster Kincaid extended her hand towards his with a loving smile. "C'mon, Captain. Let's go save the universe. One last time."

**The End**


End file.
